


Somewhere Different

by buttercups3



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: And I think my writing chops are wounded, Because it's okay to suck sometimes, But I'm posting anyway?, But this is our last week of this show ever, CM2 reflections, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Spoilers for 2.21, This is kind of a shitty Miloe story guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 21:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1662995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Miles fails to stop the mustard gas attack, the boys set off alone to regroup. Miles finally confronts Bass about his self-inflicted wounds, and they give into each other. Maybe, just maybe, it's different this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somewhere Different

They didn’t make it back in time to save the Willoughbians from their very own special edition of Memorial Day, and Miles thinks it’s his fault. He should have seen that the train was a decoy, but he got all wrapped up in the pleasure of his jacket flapping in the wind, of Charlie playing his dauntless sidekick, of mimicking the Westerns he and Bass worshipped as kids. So he fucked that up and a whole bunch of people he knew are dead… he _knew_ them, but he never bothered to learn their names, even avoided looking at their faces while he lived in their town. But he doesn’t _say_ he feels responsible for them, just tucks it down a layer where he stores his guilt until it builds to the choking point.

As they look down the bluff upon the foul-colored cloud dissipating, the moment almost tempts Miles to give up. It’s the same old problem of everyone relying on him and him being too stupid to figure things out. 

Sure enough, someone from his party asks (he’s barely listening to who and does it matter? They’re all appendages hanging from his body), “What now?” 

Charlie and Bass fix him with their luminous blues, amplified by the moonlight. How are eyes that blue even possible? 

Miles ghosts a hand over his stubble and ponders their need, not so very different from one another. When Charlie’s family was taken from her, she became Miles’ dependent. At first he resented it, and part of that frustration had to be based on experience with Bass. Miles had learned all too well that he reaped what Bass sowed… and, of course, vice versa. It’s harder for Miles to admit the second part, though if he’s honest (and in rare but forceful moments he _is_ ), that’s what really eats at him: how he groomed in Bass that need with his own co-dependence and then gutted Bass with it over and over. 

Analyzing the people he loves inevitably concludes in how he’s hurt them, and that is not going to help any of them right now. 

Miles shakes his head once to clear it away and answers the hanging question, his group being just as patient with him as if he hadn’t hesitated for untold tense moments. 

“We regroup. You guys,” he indicates Charlie and Gene, “hang around and see if there are any survivors. Patriots’ll be selling their lies that this was California. Set ‘em straight. I’m going back to the depot to see if I can figure out their next move.” Miles pauses before his blackish eyes slowly, almost reluctantly drift to the open face that might as well be a mirror at this point. “Bass?” Miles tries to pretend like his voice didn’t slightly crack on his best friend’s name. 

“Yeah. I’m coming with you.” 

Bass has been watching Miles cautiously, furtively. It hurts too much to ponder Connor’s evident abandonment issues (so like his father), so Bass chooses to focus instead on the man before him. There is enough complexity there to fill a twelve-volume set on fucked-upness. Every time Bass thinks he’s closed a book on Miles, the man unveils a new volume, Bass ever the dutiful reader every fucking time. 

Yes, Bass is an expert on Miles; he heard what Miles was saying behind all the malice – that Miles wants Bass to change _with_ him. It’s beautifully naïve to think that they could evolve together, crumbling and tossing aside the cast in which their relationship has been set since they were kids. Sure, they can change for others – Rachel, Charlie, Connor – but for each other? 

For instance right now Miles is charging off into the night without looking behind to see if Bass is tagging along. Miffed, Bass huffs aloud as he scampers to follow.

But Miles _does_ care that Bass is following, has listened intently for the crackle of pine needles to reassure himself that Bass is there. He’s just too proud to turn. 

Right on cue the rejection and hurt wells up in Bass’ chest, choking off his windpipe and making him pant. He almost doesn’t see Miles’ fist rise to indicate _freeze_. Bass halts right against Miles’ body, nose pressed into the whiskey and dirt. 

“Just a deer,” Miles scarcely whispers such that any companion except Bass would have had to make Miles repeat it. 

When was the last time Bass was buried in Miles’ scent? It’s overwhelming, stymying. The odd thing is Miles hasn’t moved either – is just standing there breathing, his shoulders rising and falling with great effort like he’s run to get here. Bass presses in a touch closer and instinctively rests his cheek on Miles’ shoulder blade, inhaling deeply. Miles still doesn’t move, but his breath catches. 

“Bass. What are you doing?” Miles’ gravelly voice seems to scrape over the very hairs on Bass’ arms beneath the leather of his sleeves. 

All at once Bass doesn’t feel like figuring anything out. He just wants to lean here against Miles forever. Miles turns so abruptly that Bass almost falls into his arms. 

From under a dark, perfectly arched eyebrow: “Are you just here because your little train plan went to hell, and you can’t think of anything better to do?” Miles’ question could be directed to himself. 

But fuck it rings harsh to Bass. The shorter man starts to wheel away, one hand caught in his own curls. “No, Miles. Fuck you!” 

Miles instantly reaches for Bass’ bicep and squeezes it a little too hard. “Then?” 

Bass strains under Miles’ grasp for a moment before giving in. That’s when Miles lets go.

Miles regrets a lot of what he said to Bass the other night, but it’s so damn frustrating burrowing down to Bass’ truth, because in Bass’ desperation to be loved, he’ll believe nearly any thought that flits into his mind. Miles’ kneejerk cruelty doesn’t have the desired effect; kindness only postpones the inevitable. Nothing _works_. 

Miles tilts his head down at Bass, so close to him that Miles can smell the leathery breath. “Bass, do you _really_ want it all again: The Republic? It was such a fucking nightmare. You know it was…” 

Miles’ expansive hand clamps on Bass’ forearm, the one with the mangled flesh and the band of material wound about the wrist. Though it’s obscured by jacket, Miles’ eyes bore through as if they see to the precise moment of each wounding. “You burned it off. Was it me you were erasing? Or the Republic?” 

Bass’ Adam’s apple bobs. Maybe he’s been waiting all this time for Miles to ask. Maybe for the first time in ages he feels… cared for. “At the time? Both.” 

“And you tried to hurt yourself again.” The rough voice doesn’t crest enough to render it a question, and Bass flinches. Miles rolls up the sleeve with surprising gentleness and slowly unravels the cotton bandage so they can both see the damage they’ve done. 

Bass can’t even think about pulling away, the calloused fingers are so warm and familiar on his wrist. Yes, he wants this. He’s wanted this since he survived it. 

Miles strokes his crusty, oversized thumb across the puckered crescent of flesh.

By the time Bass can bring himself to gaze into the black eyes, he finds them glittery. Miles lightly shakes his head at Bass. Bass has been a very bad dog. “You promised…” Miles' mouth moves, but the words don’t even sound. 

“We promised each other a lot of things, Miles,” Bass murmurs, a ribbon of energy still binding Miles’ fingers to Bass’ flesh. 

Miles swallows his shock at how emotional he still gets over this man. His brain is telling him to _fix_ Bass. But there’s only one way he knows how. 

Explosively Miles shifts both hands to Bass’ chest and shoves. For a split second Bass thinks it’s to push him down, abandon him, maybe even spit on him. But Miles has backed him against a pine tree, is sliding huge fingers into Bass’ grimy beard and immobilizing his chin. Then hot, whiskey breath smothers him, chapped lips smash into his teeth, and the wet tongue makes itself entirely at home.

Miles always shakes when he touches Bass, as if he’s waging a losing battle with his own will. The hand on Bass’ face slides unbidden down to the sunburnt throat, while the other strokes just under the hem of Bass’ shirt to trace the finely chiseled muscles beneath. _Men smell so much stronger than women_ , Miles thinks; Bass is lemon and spice and irresistible once they begin. 

Both men gasp when Miles juts his crotch into Bass without warning. They are hard and live beneath their jeans, cocks longing to touch even if their brains still resist. 

It dawns on Bass that he’s moaning _yeahyeahyeah_ into Miles’ mouth. Humiliating. How can he still have it this bad after all the torment Miles has put him through? Nothing has ever succeeded in dampening his devotion. And nothing ever will. But can’t Miles give him just a little? Say something, even something small? 

With incredible force of will Bass shoves off Miles, panting, and they both look surprised that it was Bass who managed it. Miles gives Bass some space and shifts his pants over a powerfully uncomfortable hard on. 

Bass clears his throat, drinking in the magnificent sight of Miles _wanting_ him, and mutters hoarsely, “The Republic’s for Connor. What _I_ want? You know what I want, Miles, because it’s never fucking changed.” 

Miles’ chest deflates inward, and his cheeks burn with shame. Shame that after everything, what Bass still wants is so simple. And could Miles really give him that and repair everything? It suddenly feels as though they have an audience, but it’s only the stars. So many years they spent under the quiet scrutiny of starlight, offering them none of the mystic guidance they were supposed to. Words have always struck Miles as cheap, but that’s because he’s bad at them, isn’t it? Miles finally prompts Bass though he knows full well the answer. “What?”

A puff of scoff: “You.” Bass is willing to say it. He folds his arms, eyes shifting away. Tears there. 

Miles’ eyes burn too, because this part of Bass is beautiful and unceasing. He may have some fucked up urge to conquer the world, but when it comes to love, _his_ pride never gets in the way. 

Miles takes a deep breath and allows it to tumble out before he can stop himself. “Well then we want the same thing.” 

The midnight blue eyes dart up to lock onto his. “No. You want _her_.” 

And that’s fair, because what Miles feels is so tangled, all he can do is shrug. It probably looks dismissive, but Miles can’t begin to explain the fucked up reality of his love for two people. He’s spent long nights trying to convince himself that Bass and Rachel are actually the _same_ person. 

Bass lets the world spin. That little incline of Miles’ shoulders means something to him, as pathetic a gesture it might appear. Miles isn’t offering all of himself, but he might be offering all he can give. 

Well _fuck_ , Bass has never been able to divest himself of what he wants. In a rush he sheds his jacket and all but rams Miles backward onto the ground, fumbling for zipper and the pulsing erection beneath. Christ, even nearing fifty, Miles gets impossibly hard. The cock is angry at its master for all the deprivation it has suffered. 

Just as intensely, Miles gropes around Bass’ straining arms, veins standing out against the pale skin, to wrench open Bass’ pants. It’s Bass who manages to extract Miles’ thick cock first, which twitches like it’s ecstatic to be tucked back into the slender fingers where it belongs. Then Miles’ rough finger pads skim velvet, and it’s Miles who whines aloud. 

They pull on each other with hurried, impassioned strokes, drowning in the other’s eyes without blinking. They don’t really have time for this, so they alternate between rushing and relishing. Miles leans on one hand, the carpet of pine needles indenting his palm, with Bass on his knees straddling Miles’ left thigh. Each man’s sweat freely plops on the other, Miles’ cock slick with it, and Bass’ dripping down his nose and cheeks onto the exposed hair of Miles’ pelvis. 

Having never lasted long under Bass’ calculated touch, Miles starts coming first with a grunt and a deep bite into his lip. Bass half smiles, his eyes fluttering closed at last, reassuring Miles by spreading his free hand over the fur-lined stomach. Miles will forever think he’s disappointing Bass by not being able to control himself, when it’s exactly the opposite. 

Just as the last of the pearly spray litters Bass’ fingers, Miles manages an urgent swipe right over Bass’ tip that slays him. Miles is shivering so badly that Bass has to close a hand over his friend’s loosening fingers to help wring himself out, jerky, needy, sated. Bass moans at the sight of Miles’ nakedness flecked with their mingled seed. 

Miles pulls Bass down on top of him with both hands laced around the searing neck, the full weight of the smaller man crushing him into blissful senselessness. Bass gently licks open Miles’ lips from above, hot puffs of breath in each other’s mouths and murky silence pressing in on them. 

At the same moment they both think it: Maybe, just maybe, it’s different this time.


End file.
